Out on a Limb

by Hannah Bonam-Young

“Imagine crying out ‘Fred’ in the bedroom.” His smirk grows, and I glare at him, deciding to make my point clear. “Oh, Fred,” I moan. “Yes, Fred!” I cry, probably a bit too loudly, in fake passion. “It’s awful.” A few of the other party guests, confused and perhaps the tiniest bit offended, turn toward us. I salute them before they go back to their own conversations, my eyes held on Bo.

Ted, seemingly oblivious, is still enraptured by our little performance. “So you don’t know who the dad is?” “It’s a bit of a Mamma Mia situation, I’m afraid,” I answer. “Here we go again,” Bo mutters under his breath as Melissa pulls Ted toward her and begins whispering into his ear.

“Babe?” Caleb says from the archway as he enters the kitchen. “Hey, d’ya need some help?” “Yes, we need help.” Sarah seethes. “Help understanding why you’d give that man six ore for one fucking sheep.” “Honestly?” Caleb asks. “I don’t know. It’s like he just charmed them out of my hand.”

My next appointment with Doctor Salim is in five weeks. I’ve set that as a benchmark for how long I’ll tolerate feeling like a walking vomit factory. If it goes beyond that, I may simply let the illness take me. I’ll go to the seaside like all the sick or slightly insane women used to, and I’ll will myself to either be done with it or enjoy an early grave. Or, perhaps, I’ll ask Doctor Salim to prescribe that medicine she suggested. One of those two things.